


cause you might not get tomorrow

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Death Threats, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-10 23:42:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15960071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: Carlotta receives a threatening note saying she has twenty-four hours to live and she should get her affairs in order. She knows the phantom well enough to believe it.





	cause you might not get tomorrow

The note that Carlotta receives in the evening, directly after the end of her act, is more civil than usual in some ways. It does not insult her. It is barely even threatening. It merely states that she has twenty-four hours to set her affairs in order before she meets her maker. On the other hand, it is ruder than some of his notes in another way—it is not hand-delivered by Madame Giry but merely left lying on her bureau, and although it is in the usual barely legible scrawl it lacks his signature stamp and rose.

Carlotta is not afraid of the phantom and she will never run from him. This opera house is hers. But neither is she fool enough to think he can’t follow through on his threats.

She writes up a schedule for herself and gets started.

First: she goes to the managers. Shows them the letter. Screams, tells them they had better take precautions and asks them what the fuck kind of opera house they think they’re running. Because honestly, maybe the phantom isn’t easy to wrangle, but something like this would never have happened under Debienne and Poligny.

She is majestic but also quick. On that errand she only spends half an hour, but her words will sting their ears enough that they will remember it as if she stayed the whole evening.

Next she goes home. She sits down and writes several letters. She gets her landlady to witness an edited version of her will. She has a considerable amount of wealth and in the past she’d considered leaving some of it as a grant to the opera house, but she’s changed her mind. Half will go to Piangi, another quarter to the family she left behind years ago, and a final quarter to some scattered charities she’s been pleased to patronize over the years.

Then she goes to bed. It is no use going without sleep, even if this is her last day. There is no point in spending her last day stumbling around like an idiot because she stayed up too late.

 

* * *

 

“Carlotta’s a right demon today,” Meg mutters to Christine as they exit the stage after the morning rehearsal session. She’s been on everyone constantly, harping not only on their specific mistakes but on what she sees as their general flaws in music and in life, expounding at length, stabbing a finger in the air and getting quite red-faced. She’s right in all her criticisms for the most part. That’s what makes it particularly infuriating.

She had very few criticisms for Christine. A couple remarks on her lack of confidence, a couple on how she has poor taste in patrons. And some oddly intense looks. But not the usual haranguing, and so although Christine is exhausted, she’s not nearly as annoyed as Meg.

A good thing, too, for as they approach the dressing rooms, Carlotta grabs Christine’s arm. “Miss Daae, a moment of your time.”

Christine follows her into her private dressing room. It is more spacious and grand than the others, and Christine marvels at it. This is life as a real diva, she supposes. This is the life Erik wants for her. And of course the life she wants for herself, but she doubts it will come soon. For now it is enough to view it from a distance.

Carlotta gestures for Christine to sit. “You heard my notes in rehearsal today.”

“Certainly. We all heard your notes.” Christine raises her eyebrows. She does not sit down—getting too comfortable in front of Carlotta feels like a trap.

“You must get better patrons. Rich, influential ones. Your precious Vicomte is not such an asset as you think. And avoid the violent ones. And by all means disentangle yourself from that damn phantom. He will ruin you as he has many others. That would be a dreadful pity.”

Christine flushes; she’s not sure what at, or whether she’s flattered or enraged.

“Practice everyday. Remember not to be too subservient to the managers—they need you as much as you need them. Have some pride. A diva needs pride. She needs to show the world her worth.” Carlotta turns to look in the mirror. “I have shown the world my worth, have I not?”

“No one would deny it.” Is she going to be sitting here listening to Carlotta rant for the rest of the day?

After a long silence, Carlotta sighs. “Very well then. No more advice. I have a couple questions. First, how serious are things between you and that Vicomte?”

“That is none of your business,” Christine says. And she’s glad she didn’t sit down—this question would be enough to make anyone stand up.

“Well, if they are not terribly serious, would the little ingénue be scandalized if I kissed her?”

Possible answers flash through Christine’s brain. Yes, of course, obviously. No—maybe—are you asking about onstage? For a show? No, that was apparent in Carlotta’s eyes and posture. “No,” she says. “I don’t think so.”

“Then, with your permission, I will.”

Carlotta beckons her close imperiously, and Christine walks closer and closer until they are chest to chest. She is a bit taller than Carlotta, although Carlotta always seems bigger because she’s fatter and she always wears some huge hat or wig. Carlotta cups her cheeks and kisses her, first slowly and gently and then a little bit harder. Christine does her best to respond—Carlotta kisses better than Raoul, though, and she doesn’t know how to respond in kind. And then Carlotta draws back with a last little bite to Christine’s lower lip.

She gives Christine a look of satisfaction. Christine is out of breath.

“You may leave now, lovely.”

“What?”

“I said you may leave.” Carlotta waves a hand. “Shoo.”

And Christine skitters away, her cheeks flushed again out of embarrassment and excitement both, unsure what exactly it all means. Meg in the hallway asks her what Carlotta wanted and all she can say is, “You’re right. She’s certainly in a mood.”

 

* * *

 

Carlotta sings her best at the show that night. She waits for a disaster to occur, a curtain to fall or a fire to catch or even another chandelier. There is nothing.

After the show everyone is congratulatory. The managers offer her conciliatory words about how everything has turned out all right, and she ignores them. Her twenty-four hours are not yet up. The phantom is usually precise.

She hugs Piangi in the hallway but does not pause to speak with him. If she speaks with him she will tell him everything, and she will cry, and he will promise to stop the phantom and he will get himself killed. She is not afraid of the phantom killing her, but she has spent much of her career protecting Piangi from one thing or another—critical managers, failing shows, even the occasional angry ex-lover—and she will not see him hurt because of her and the phantom’s stupid grudge.

She goes to her dressing room. Paces the floor once, twice. Waits. Watches the clock.

As the hour strikes, there is a knock at the door. She picks up a heavy vase (she will fight back, she will not make this easy for him) and opens the door. It is Madame Giry with a rose and a letter. The rose smells fresh. The letter has the phantom’s seal.

She opens it.

“Madam Carlotta,

“It has never been my habit to apologize to you, and I will not now, as I believe the offense is mine. I have heard the managers saying I threatened to end your life for no good reason, which is ridiculous. Believe me, when I kill you, you will know the reason. My good will hangs on a thread but as you have not cut it yet I will continue to be merciful. As for the vagabond who threatened you (likely in vain), he had best keep his wits about him. I do not approve of such antics in my opera house.

“Yours most sincerely,

“O.G.”

She reads it several times through, then crumples it in her fist. She does not think he is lying, but she is angry. Angry at her own relief.

The threat may still be real, but it is not the phantom. Ordinary stalkers and threateners are plentiful. She’s dealt with them before. Now she’s embarrassed she allowed herself to get so worked up, rewrite her will and write posthumous letters to all her friends and all that. She’s been acting ridiculous. Jumping at shadows. When she thinks about it, the handwriting wasn't even the same. She's just...the last few months, with the phantom's letters constant and his directions always overbearing, have taken their toll.

With a deep breath, she pulls herself back together. She changes and combs her hair and heads out to the street.

On the doorstep of the opera house a girl is waiting for her. Christine. She offers Carlotta a small, awkward bow, and says, “You have been acting odd today.”

God. She kissed this girl. She doesn’t quite regret it, but had she not thought herself about to die, had she been less focused on seizing the day, she might have gone about it with more grace.

“I…I wondered if you might walk me home,” Christine says. She puts her hands behind her back. “Not that I, you know…”

“Certainly I’ll walk you home.” Carlotta offers her arm. “Though I don’t know where you live.”

Christine gives her address. It’s not far away, and Carlotta is glad to walk with her. She’s not sure that after the day she’s had she wants to be alone.

**Author's Note:**

> A while back I was doing trope bingo and "24 hours to live" was one of the tropes and I was like... oh, Carlottastine carpe diem would be kind of fun. So now six months later I finally wrote the fic. I hope someone enjoyed :) I haven't written Carlottastine since June and it was starting to get me down.  
> Talk to me in the comments, or come see me on tumblr at convenientalias :)


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